7 Days a novel
by ThMaggot
Summary: An action packed horror story about Kurt, a paranoid drug addict who, after his parent's death is forced to make his own way in life. He gets caught up in a gangster situation in which he will do anything to escape. If you want more,let me know.


Kurt stood at the gap between the two bushes; stone sour blaring in his ears. He took a deep inhale of smoke and coughed weakly. "I never wanted to destroy someone like you," the lyrics penetrated him so deeply a tear rolled down his cheek. The wind blew his black leather coat about his bare legs. He took another puff of weed and leant his head back against the dense bush. The branches stuck out at all angles and they scratched at the back of his neck. But he didn't give a shit. The pain he felt inside was far beyond any physical pain imaginable. The rain fell heavily, the drops landing on his face and dark hair. "We are on our own again." He tore the earphones out his ears with a swish of the hand and threw his black ipod and earphones to the floor. He screamed out loud and threw his fag to the floor. "Fuck offff," he yelled stamping on the cigarette repeatedly. Heads turned but quickly turned back. Not in disgust, they just pretended not to have noticed him. Like everyone did. Kurt spat on the ground and turned to walk away. "Sarah was a good woman, she was polite, intelligent." Kurt spun round. "The fuck you know about anythin'" he said stabbing his finger in the air at the vicar. There was a gentle sob. Her husband was comforting the mother of Hannah. "She loved her children and her husband." Kurt's upper lip curled. "Shut the FUCK up!" "She lived a good life and was a victim to illness that took over her". "I'm fucking warning you"! Kurt screamed curling his hands into fists as he strode through the group of people towards the vicar. "She was not responsible for her actions." The vicar raised his voice and stopped, Kurt now standing right in his face both hands curled into tight fists. "And I'm not for mine." Kurt took won swing and he lost it. He smashed his fist into the Vicar's face again and again. He laid into him with all the strength and anger he had, completely ignoring the yells and rash attempts to pull him off the man. After a good few seconds, one of the stronger men in his thirties tore Kurt off the man who was bleeding severely.

As if Kurt had only just realised what he had done, he sat in the wet mud, the rain hitting hard against his blood stained hands. He stood, pulled his leather hood over his head and sprinted off towards the gate of the Greenmouth cemetery.

At the edge of the road sat his shiny black Suzuki bike. Kurt ran over to it and got on. His broken and bloody fingers could barely grasp the keys when his trembling hand took them out of his pocket. He placed the key into the back of the bike to open up a compartment in the bike containing his helmet. He squeezed the helmet onto his head and grabbed the keys. The engine roared to life as Kurt turned the keys and revved the engine. His hands hurt, a reflection of the pain he had just inflicted on another. Against all his morals, he had tried to kill another. He shook the thought away and drove down the road.

Kurt turned off Greenmouth Road and onto a roundabout. Leaning right he felt a flash of pain spread across his knee. It burned like hell but it gave him a weird satisfaction like when you've cut your nails and you push your skin hard up against the nail. Kurt turned fast and after missing his turn, his heart raced and his hands loosened on the accelerator and he slowed down for a fraction of a second before panicking and speeding up. He was going so fast that the right side of his body was aching from the pressure. He wasn't going to make the turn. Kurt braked hard before his front wheel smashed into the curb. His hands were torn of his handlebars by the impact and he spun forward over the bike. He flipped over in the air and landed hard on the grass on the other side of the metal. His legs were pushed apart as he skidded across the floor. His upper body was pushed back until he was lying flat on his back. His bike landed twelve feet to his left.

Kurt's body screamed with pain. He had hit the back of his head hard and he couldn't feel his legs at all. He reached down with his right arm and touched his thigh. His index and middle finger came back with wet blood. Kurt's jeans were torn and his leg was bleeding. He reached back and with an effort, slid the helmet off his head. His plastic visor was cracked in two and was hanging off the attachment points. He winced as his lungs hurt trying to breathe deeply. There were voices drawing nearer and there were faint sirens in the distance.

"Oi, are you ok over there," a man was shouting from the road. He came to kneel next to Kurt. "Oh shit dude are you hurt?" Well, that would be an understatement because Kurt was obviously not okay. In fact he hurt so bad he wished he could just pass out and wake up in some comfy hospital bed. But that sure as hell wasn't going to happen knowing Kurt's luck. Kurt never had anything the easy way; he always had to sit through the pain. "Don't you worry man, there's an ambulance on its way. You look hurt" Kurt let out a breath of laughter. "Yeah, no shit. I can't feel my legs."

The sirens were drawing nearer and nearer and they eventually reached a gradual volume. There were flashing lights behind Kurt and more voices making him feel a little claustrophobic despite the open area. Two men reached his side, one carrying a paramedic bag. "Now I need you to stay calm for us and tell us exactly what happened, can you do that for us Mr…?"- "Stephens, the names Kurt." Kurt closed his eyes momentarily and took a deep breath of air. "I lost control and spun off, hit the curb." Even as he said it, his lungs ached with the, what now seemed like near impossible task of providing his blood with oxygen. Although having said that, a good percentage of his blood was dripping down his leg and soaking his trousers. Kurt sighed deeply and as he stared up at the grey clouds in the sky, he passed out.

Tick, tick, tick, tick. The calming repetitiveness of the clock ticking over and over soothed Kurt's now softly aching bones. He lay on his back in a warm, urine smelling hospital bed thinking about how the hell he'd gotten there. His thoughts were drowsy as if he was dreaming, or more as if he couldn't quite grasp why he had crashed and why he had hurt the priest. Fear, anger, both. The truth was he was never honest with himself and he kept himself so apart from the rest of the world that he forgot what it felt like to be alive. But the most part of his brain was thinking; I really need a fag.

The room was gently lit from a lamp on the wooden bedside table. There was a tray of food and milk next to the lamp but just looking at the food made Kurt want to puke.

A nurse's head emerged from behind the door. She smiled then stepped in and sat down on the chair next to Kurt's bed. "How are you feeling?" she asked reading his blood pressure from a pressure monitor strapped to his wrist. "I'm alright, just a little shaken up. Where's my bike?" The nurse smiled again and pointed to the keys on the bedside table. "It's parked in the garage next to the ambulances. If you feel better you can go home in the morning after some final check ups. Take it easy though, and I certainly wouldn't recommend riding back, we can call a taxi for you to take you and your bike home."


End file.
